Séverine’s mother fills a flask of coffee and hands it to Céline, who takes it and turns back to serve coffee to the workers. Without looking at her daughter, the old woman washes her hands in the brown sandstone sink. She takes a long time to dry them. Séverine wonders why she has come in, why this stupid weakness, then remembers; she goes to get two Algerian-style mugs and puts them down on the oilcloth. She feels the slight softness under the canvas, the rubber tablecloth supposed to cushion blows and protect the varnished wood of a table that’s too chunky. Séverine dreams of fine lines and glass tables, aware that even in her own home she hasn’t been able to take on new tastes. She presses into the material with her fingertips, resisting the urge to dig her nails into it.

“Stop that,” her mother hisses, as she pours the coffee and sits down opposite her daughter.

Laughter, livelier since Céline has joined the team, can be heard outside, along with Céline’s voice.

“She’s doing well. The girl knows how to go about it.”

Since Séverine doesn’t answer, the old woman adds, “She gets respect, don’t kid yourself.”

“I don’t kid myself.”

“You think you’re better than her. You think you’re better than everybody.”

Séverine is suddenly overwhelmed with extreme tiredness, more extreme than the kind caused by lack of sleep, the lack of peace that sometimes afflicts her in the middle of the night. She looks up into her mother’s eyes, pale blue and hard. She sighs. The old woman glances at the clock.

“What time do you start work?”

“Half an hour.”

A silence, to estimate the small bundle of minutes, work out if there’s enough time to spit out a few home truths, spoil the taste of the coffee.

“Let me remind you, you weren’t much older.”

“So? Did you jump for joy?”

“No.”

“Were you proud? Were you happy?”

The old woman does not reply, her wrinkled smile frozen like a mask.

“It happened, that’s all.”

“It happened, so it might as well happen again, right?”

“There’s nothing you can do about it now, can you? It’s not like this child’s going to swim back up into his father’s balls.”

Her eyes search Séverine, looking for an answer nobody has except Céline.

“We don’t know who it is. She won’t say. And you know something? Maybe she’s right. Maybe he’s not worth knowing.”

“That’s not the point,” the old woman replies cuttingly.

“Then what is the point?”

“Dishonour, my girl. Tongues wagging, neighbours. The child, have you thought about the child?”